


cupid's chokehold

by hellhoundsprey



Series: spn kink bingo 2020 [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 'verse' is short for 'versatile' which means the character both bottoms AND tops in this fic, Bottom Dean Smith, Cock Cages, Lace Panties, M/M, Married Couple, Porn with Feelings, Sex Toys, Verse Justin Smith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:40:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23858473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Justin’s still not finished falling in love, and it’s gonna be their five-year anniversary next month.2020 kink bingo square 11: caged/open back panties
Relationships: Dean Smith/Justin Smith
Series: spn kink bingo 2020 [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602964
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40
Collections: SPN Kink Bingo 2020





	cupid's chokehold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homo_pink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homo_pink/gifts).



Justin ain’t a man of many secrets.

He prefers to make things clear as early as possible. It’s only polite. Honesty is a rare value in these times. He’s also rather quick to make up his mind.

Figured out, for example, back in kindergarten and after playing house for the first time, dangling from his momma’s hand and informing her that, “I wanna be married someday,” and she loved that, her single little gentleman aside from her three daughters and yet he didn’t overcompensate, didn’t seem to grow up a brute, so she chirped, “Oh, sure, honey,” and he didn’t mention it again _per se_ (and why would he, only a child back then).

Justin’s also one of those inside-their-own-head-a-lot kinda guys. Prefers the quiet and the orderly. Never cared much for sports except for the part when all those other boys around him would strip down to hit the showers. Middle school answered a lot of questions.

Nobody batted an eye, not really, when Dean Smith joined them for that first of many Thanksgivings—formally announced by Justin beforehand, of course. Biggest shock about the entire ordeal probably had been Dean’s Cavalli, the Rolex so casually dangling from that rich-boy wrist.

The Smiths had never cared much for formal wear outside of Sunday Mass. Couldn’t name a brand with a knife to their throats, probably. And while Justin’s not the only queer feather in his flock, he considers himself an entrepreneur when it comes to fashion, and life choices, and in general.

How Dean ever chose him might have been a puzzle to his folks. How someone as handsome, as successful and tasteful and dazzling would pick a scholarship-kid fresh outta law school like their Justin. Their sweet little Justin, who couldn’t hurt a fly, couldn’t even scowl at you—but, admittedly, was a bit _off_ at times, maybe on the autism spectrum because that’s such a common thing nowadays, isn’t it, and it would _explain_ things, it would.

Justin’s folks don’t know everything about Justin. And that’s okay.

Justin’s head rises at the noises from down the corridor cutting through the peaceful silence of the apartment—he likes to keep all doors open in favor of more light, more room.

“Babe?”

Justin hollers, “Office!” and feels himself smiling on instinct as he pushes his notes and books away from himself. “Golly gosh,” he gasps to himself, a fleeting gaze at the clock, “look at the time.”

Dean joins him before he’s finished clearing his desk for the day. Juggles dirty dishes and three half-empty cups of tea as his husband welcome-kisses him, well-manicured hand on Justin’s shoulder and Justin blushes awkward because he hasn’t showered, because his hair’s probably disheveled from when he raked his hands through it the many dozen times today.

Dean always makes a point of looking—smelling—feeling—perfect.

“Welcome back.”

Dean asks, “You eat yet?” and it’s not an accusation, is soft and caring like the warm, warm green of those eyes, the embrace of that half-a-grand cologne.

Justin’s still not finished falling in love, and it’s gonna be their five-year anniversary next month. “I am very much famished for some dinner, Mr. Smith.”

“Excellent.” Another kiss on Justin’s mouth. “There’s a table waiting for us, Mr. Smith, so put on something nice so I can show you off to the entire goddamn restaurant.”

Justin makes a happy noise and Dean cups his cheek for that, kisses him again, again, again. Justin feels him smiling against his mouth.

Justin’s husband ponders, quietly, “Maybe the Sid Mashburn one, checked wool,” and ducking away from that hand and that man to get himself ready is the hardest task Justin’s done all day.

~

First emotion you get from looking at Dean Smith is: horror.

Because oh god. Oh _god_.

Life isn’t fair.

And oh, Jesus Christ, please look at me, _notice_ me—or, better:

do not.

_Do not_ see me. Do _not_ look at me like the maggot I obviously am, next to you.

There’s a strictness to all of Dean Smith, from the back-combed hair to the polish of his shoes. Lingers in the set of his overfull lips, the outside-tilt of the shells of his ears and his legs; these imperfections that shouldn’t be worth obsessing over, but the Lord didn’t care and somehow created him anyway.

Justin catches himself off-kilter, still. When he zooms out, forgets that they are in fact not one person but two, that there is a separation, a ‘you’ and a ‘me’.

That Justin Smith is still Justin Smith. That Dean Smith (no relation, before) chose him, specifically.

That Justin can stuff his entire hand down the back of those dress pants and Dean won’t kill him for wearing out the fabric.

That there’s a ring on one of the fingers he’s got hooked up into this million-dollar CEO; that that mouth quivers against Justin’s own as he gasps, Justin’s face secure in both of his smooth-smooth hands, urges, “Fuck me,” and, “Fuck, _please_ ,” beautifully caught between Justin and the wall.

Dean will throw back a flute of champagne if courtesy insists, but bourbon’s his one true mistress. Makes him a different kind of man, unhinged and starved, and Justin wonders if that’s what Justin himself is like when sober, around Dean.

A whimper for Justin tugging that leg tighter around his hip, grinding them together with control he didn’t know he had until Dean. Couple of drinks in him as well and he _feels_ those, dwells in the heat and the fuzz, the numbness of his face.

He reprimands, “Watch the cussing,” with his tongue in that porn-mouth, but still begins the long journey of maneuvering them into the bedroom.

(He likes to tell himself Dean’s language has bettered itself over the years, under his influence.)

“Show me,” he sighs, his own ass and then back hitting the mattress, up on his elbows because his husband’s a show in itself without trying.

And Lord, when he _tries_.

“Yeah?” says Dean, under his breath, strands of hair now finally coming loose and falling into his eyes as his fingers work his pants open with unnecessary decadence. “You wanna see, babe?”

Dean’s pants drop to his ankles and Justin nearly crosses himself, puts his hand between his own legs instead.

“You like it?”

Flirted smirk; knowing bastard. Begins to pop the many buttons of his shirt as he turns around, and Justin’s dick might still be trapped in his trousers but it sure tries to break its chains.

He shudders, “Honey,” and Dean laughs at him, cruelly.

Dean reaches behind himself to paw at his backside. Feathers the tips of his fingers on the far-out edges of lace, scalloped and black. Fingers along the subtle elastic throning those dimples and Justin nearly passes out he’s scurrying out of his own slacks so fast.

More chuckles. “Thought so.”

“Shut the front door and come here, you,” and Dean doesn’t have to be told twice (of course).

Climbs him and straddles his lap and shucks out of his now-open shirt with his tongue in Justin’s mouth. His turn to gasp when the insistence of Justin’s bare cock nearly ignores the already-there plug; and Justin growls.

Grumbles, “Fudge berries,” without meaning it, not a rebuke in any-a way, shape or form, since it’s so blessedly easy to retract the toy, toss it away, onto the floor, to guide himself in there immediately.

A shared bliss; Dean’s hands in Justin’s hair and Justin smothers his face in that waxed-to-perfection chest as they work his cock deeper up Dean’s guts with blessed, fluid movements.

Dean’s still a boy scout to this very day—always prepared.

Groans, lost, “Fuck,” with all of Justin clutched inside of him now, a steady, solid pulse and the soft skin of his ass kisses Justin’s balls just like the lace grazes Justin’s thighs, rubs at his happy trail.

Justin’s own pair sits snug, pulled just underneath his nuts and he gets one arm behind him, puts the other back on that ass to rub where he’s grinding up into.

Lost in their rut and their kiss, he only ever notices Dean unbuttoning his shirt for him when it’s already getting pushed down his arms.

A frenzy to get rid of the fabric; his shoes, his socks. He finds himself on his knees, on top now, hips snapping relentlessly and Dean has the presence to peel his glasses off his face for him.

Legs around him, caging him in—hands on his ass, egging him on, caressing the lace, rubbing into his gash; all of it.

Again, “Honey,” and he gets a breathless, “Love you, too.”

A smile and a kiss before Justin rises to his knees anew, grabs Dean by the hips to lay into him right.

Dean admitted that he had the bedroom soundproofed even prior to Justin, but those things are in the past. Nobody but him here, now.

Love sounds from the bed, Dean’s body in two places, Justin’s mouth.

Their twenties have been behind them for a good while now, but a good marriage keeps you young, they say.

A moment to catch his breath, and it’s so easy to break. To have Dean’s fingers dancing along the sensitive back of his neck and to mouth at that nipple with his cock all buried and warm and slick; to slur, “Need it.”

A knowing click of tongue.

Dean hums, “Just where you left it.”

Takes another while to dislodge himself from that Heaven, and he feels more drunk back on his feet, staggers towards their loyal drawers. Justin considers the toy Dean clearly referred to, but he ends up grabbing one of the new ones and a bottle of lube to go with it.

Working from home has its perks. Regarding their spending, maybe not so much. But Dean’s not complained about Justin’s shopping so far.

Not even Dean’s cussing can wipe the grin from Justin’s face right now.

“Thought you’d like it,” he teases, back on the bed and slathering one of the two silicone ends already.

Dean’s still all flushed face and heaving chest, legs splayed wide, uncaring, presenting the grower-not-shower he’s locked away behind the laced panties and a good amount of stainless steel.

Asks, generously, “You need some help with that?”

It’s Justin’s time to scoff, now.

Dean grins. “Fucking slut.”

“No such thing. I’m _married_.”

“Fucking slut, _married_ to a fucking slut.”

Justin warns, “I was _gonna_ give you one of these, y’know,” and Dean laughs, all angelic. Pets at the baby-gape of his hole and Justin grumbles because he can’t reason with this.

Justin positions himself onto his back, the dildo in one hand and the other fingering what must merely be a fraction of the amount Dean sat through dinner with up his ass.

A cocked eyebrow, when he cares to look.

“Sure you don’t need help?”

“You don’t have to.”

“Maybe I wanna,” says Dean, is already crawling between Justin’s legs.

Peels those panties further aside, doesn’t exactly wait for him to pull his fingers out to stuff two of his own in there, along with his face.

“Oh gee. Oh, _gosh_.” Justin’s hands come up to cover his face. “You’re, I—I thought you didn’t, uhm, I mean…”

“You didn’t ask,” berates Dean, just a quick breath before he dives back in and has Justin’s cock drooling over his lower belly anew in no time.

They’re good at sex with each other. They discuss things and are open and all that, but maybe _because_ of that, Justin didn’t quite grasp the whole chastity thing when Dean brought it up. Because what’s the point with them being married and free to do whatever? But Justin’s no prude, so he nodded, sure, of course, if that’s what you want?

The double dildo was more of a nod towards their shared love for anal and an option for both of them to have their cake and eat it, too, rather than a broad hint.

Honest.

Pressure against his now slightly less tense asshole. Justin’s skin crawls in that wicked way edging on uncomfortable, of dirty-bad-wrong.

“You had dibs on the bigger one, yeah?” and Dean knows him too, _too_ well.

The toy breaches him, doesn’t hesitate to push on, all guided by Dean’s gym-sculpted arm, under the ministration of those hooded eyes, the absent lick of a lip.

Murmured, “There you go,” and Justin exhales too-tight, bites back a whimper.

It’s heartbreaking how familiar they are with each other. How soft Justin can be around Dean, how secure he knows he is, how well-kept and loved and doted on and spoiled.

“Need it so deep, don’t you?” and Justin nods, mindlessly, eyes and dick so fucking wet and there’s a flash of ego now, of how nice it would be to just lie back like this and let Dean fuck him. “Keep these out of the way, would you?”

Justin’s fingertips find the lace Dean guides him towards, pulls them aside. Moans upon the toy drawing back, pushing back in, further now.

“F—fiddlesticks.”

“Hurts?”

“Yeah,” and, “good,” unashamed but his throat pulls tight nevertheless, together with his stomach, his guts. A deep moan—Dean picks up the pace.

“Still gonna need some inches for myself, though.”

“Yeah. Yes.” Justin gulps for air, for his own spit. “Get, uh, sh-sould we…?”

Dean answers the question by hauling Justin’s leg over his head to join the other, so that Justin can gather his knees underneath himself, and that’s that.

His vision’s blurry even with this little distance but Justin watches between his legs nevertheless—the slope of Dean’s body settling in right behind him, the added pressure on the toy lodged deep inside of him forcing it even further now, the breathless little sounds from his husband as he threads the available end of the toy inside himself.

Justin rocks back on it and Dean slurs, “God,” fist still quivering around the middle part and Justin folds his hand over there, too, just for the leverage.

Doesn’t take much to push them so close their fists are sandwiched tight between them.

It’s—a lot. “Fuck, do it. Do it, baby, please.”

Dean is one heck of a pillow princess, if you let him.

And Justin’s just a good husband.


End file.
